


It's A Small Crime, And I've Got No Excuse

by demisms



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Animal Death, Child Abuse, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 22:05:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demisms/pseuds/demisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>" <i>Joffrey... I remember once, this kitchen cat... the cooks were wont to feed her scraps and fish heads. One told the boy that she had kittens in her belly, thinking he might want one. Joffrey opened up the poor thing with a dagger to see if it were true. When he found the kittens, he brought them to show his father. Robert hit the boy so hard I thought he'd killed him.</i> "</p><blockquote>- Stannis Baratheon, <i>A Storm of Swords</i>
</blockquote>Accepting the second tart, you slip off the counter and tell him that if you wanted a kitten you could get one yourself. <p>But now you do. </p><p>And you don't want to wait.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's A Small Crime, And I've Got No Excuse

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was originally written for a roleplay dream sequence. I haven't edited it, so there may be a few mistakes here and there, as well as the disturbing imagery (read your warnings, people) but I hope you all find it enjoyable either way!
> 
> Cheers~

The cook started it. 

The fat old man with grease on his apron and sweat stains on his tunic had given you a tart and the cat a fish head and pointed to her fat belly. _You see that, My Prince? That ones got kittens inside of her._  He seems to think this would engage you more than the tart and it does, but you're too old to play with kittens - you've started playing at swords now - and so you pretend it doesn't. You shrug and the cook appeals to you with smiles and another tart. _Might you be wanting on, My Prince? I could tell you when they're born and you could have the pick of the litter._

Accepting the second tart, you slip off the counter and tell him that if you wanted a kitten you could get one yourself. 

But now you do. 

And you don't want to wait.

It's no big task to slip into the armory; you've done it before and there's now quite a collection of small treasures from your excursions into the vault, hidden under the winter bed linens in the trunk at the foot of your bed; decorative spikes that usually bedecked the tops of helms but had broken off and never been fixed, a pair of glass handled daggers, small empty bottles you imagine might have once held poison, two leather belts made for sword sheaths, a thin sword and a pair of silver gauntlets too big for your hands and inlaid with a sigil of a house you don't recognize off the top of you head. Though on _this_ particular pilferage, you select a crude, steel dagger. Small, sharp but not pretty; the only decorations were the snicks along the blade. It was a tool, and you intend to use and discard it as such. 

Catching the cat had been easy. She was fat, waddled, and was too fat to fit through the small window at the end of the corridor you have entrapped her in. There was more blood than you expected and stopped several times to wipe your hands on your tunic and pants; it'd ruin the fabric, but you've got a task at hand and if the cook wears sweat and grease, you can wear blood. 

There are five kittens. Two of them don't move when you pick them up and cradle them in your shirt, but three stir weakly. Only one of the kittens mewl, but that's enough to make you smile in pride because, look, you got your kittens and now you want to show your father. 

He is in his council when you find him, busy drinking over a map as his brothers, Hand and trusted somebodies recline in their chairs and pinch their noses. You know that gesture; they've had a long day and were tired and perhaps - after you show your father the contents of your shirt - you would make a prideful round of the table and show off your prize for them to enjoy as well. You're quite while approaching the table, somehow unnoticed (even in bloody clothes) until you fall into your fathers line of sight, and when he sees you everyone else at the table turns their head and an eerie silence spreads as you smile. 

It stretches, and is broken by the scrape of your fathers chair on the stone ground as he stands, then the stomp of his boots as he rounds the table and approaches. Encroaches. Something about his stride scares you, and your eyes flick to his feet when he stops in front of you, dancing between shoes and face as he looks you up and down in turn. 

The expression on his face is pinched, sickened, disgusted and strange, because you can't quite figure out why he would be looking that way at you. You try to show him the contents of your squirming shirt pouch, smiling. 

  _Father, I -_

But the words are cut short when the back of his hand, laced with decorative rings like that dagger was with nicks, connects with your jaw and your head snaps to the side with an audible _**crack**_. You stagger, stumble, turn from the strength behind the blow and you lose grasp on your shirt hem, releasing the fabric and sending the contents of kittens off in directions you cannot fathom when the ground is rushing up this quickly to meet you. 

Your knees are scraped. Elbows scratched, palms skinned, and your eyes are bleary when you try to push yourself up, as if they won't right themselves. 

Tears well up in the corners of your eyes as your gaze alights upon the five red dashes across the floor in front of you. The kittens are scattered, unmoving where they fell from your shirt; little red blotches on the stone and now none of them are moving. 

When you open your mouth to let out a cry, a salty mixture of saliva, blood and teeth drip past your lips and onto the floor, making bloody little splotches of your own. 


End file.
